


angel

by batwngs



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 13:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19906132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batwngs/pseuds/batwngs
Summary: …he couldn’t help but think of you as what you were: an angel. the faint lights of the television and the lamp highlighted your silhouette; jason swore he saw your halo in that moment.





	angel

**Author's Note:**

> based on the song _angel_ by finneas

It was a long night. Jason’s muscles were sore and steeped with exhaustion. He could feel scars assembling and reassembling on the crevices of his skin. His knuckles were sore and bruised. The blood from his earlier activities burned with his every movement. Despite the aching pain that stabbed at his shoulder, seeing the front door to his apartment at the end of the hall brought him a wave of peace.

He opened the front door of his shared apartment with a slight creak that tore through the silence of the night. Darkness engulfed majority of the room, the only light came from the faint blue glow of the television that pooled onto the floor. An infomercial played on the screen, something about a vacuum. A man’s overenthusiastic yet bland voice at a low, indistinct volume filled the room.

You always left the tv running into the late hours of the night. When the two of you had first moved in together, Jason didn’t really know that you struggled with sleep. He remembered waking up in the middle of the night during that first week sharing a home only to find the fire-orange glow of the street lights illuminating your absence amongst the pillows and mattress. Walking into the living room, he would see your figure curled up on the couch while your lidded and hollow eyes reflected exhaustion and the glitter of old reruns from the television. You had told him then that it helped you find sleep: the sound of overused jokes from sitcoms lost to time cutting through the quiet of the night and the static glow of the screen drowning out the wine-dark void of the room. You had told him then that it felt like finding waves divinity as it crashed onto the rocks of the mundane.

With time, Jason learned more about the little things you did, the little habits of yours. They felt like packaged blessings meant only for his eyes. Every new habit of yours he locked away in his heart so he would never forget.

Maneuvering his way through the dimly lit apartment, Jason went to the kitchen to pull out the first aid kit. He tried to make his movements as quiet as possible. The creaky floorboards didn’t help, of course. Reaching the couch, Jason placed his trustworthy first-aid kit on the coffee table. The table was cheap and old, perhaps older than himself. The edges of the ancient table were chipped and wearing away. This morning’s edition of the Gotham Gazettelay discarded atop the mahogany surface, neighboring Jason’s well-loved copy of John Donne’s poetry. If he looked closely, Jason was sure he could find a crumb or two left behind from that morning’s breakfast.

You and Jason often spent the late mornings together like that, enjoying breakfast together on the couch while you each held your own set of words that told immensely different things. But all those words meant nothing to you after all—you only ever read the Gotham Gazettefor the pictures. Just this morning, while Jason sat on the couch to read through Aire and Angels and The Sun Rising for the millionth time, you were looking at the morning’s report of the local crime, flipping through the inky pages detailing the numerous horrors that took place along with some big charity article about billionaire Bruce Wayne. Seeing the occasional tarty picture of a child with shadow-blacked eyes and black lips always darkened your features into that of a sickly, grave bird. Jason could only wonder if those pictures of missing, injured, deceased individuals spoke to you through the grainy black ink. What kinds of things were they saying?

Jason found it difficult to patch himself up in the quiet of the night. The forgotten television’s glow combined with the soft yellow of the tableside lamp proved to be horrible for injuries. He tried to be as quiet as possible, hoping his search for tape wouldn’t wake you from your dreams.

Despite his efforts, Jason heard the squeaking of the bed in the other room. From the corner of his eyes he saw the tethered white of wings. 

“Hey,” you mumbled, sleep strongly tugging at your words. You rested your body along the door frame, your head leaning on the dated moulding. You looked of a statue, delicate and mesmerizing with the dark of the abandoned bedroom hiding the shape your godly wings.

“Hey,” Jason replied softly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Do you need help with that?”

“N-no, I’m good. I can do it myself; you go back to bed.”

You walked over, dragging your feet across the floorboard, and took the gauze out his hand. “No.”

As you towered over Jason’s seated form, he couldn’t help but think of you as what you were: an angel. The faint lights of the television and the lamp highlighted your silhouette; Jason swore he saw your halo in that moment.

The room was silent, besides that of television in the background and the slow, careful breathing between the two of you. With the gauze in hand, you set to work patching up the injuries that Jason brought home. Kneeling at the edge of the couch, you held Jason’s hand and you started to clean away the blood and dirt from his knuckles. You were kind with his hand. Your touch felt light and dream-like, the way it felt to hold sun-kissed water as it slipped through your fingers. Jason sometimes felt it was a sin to touch you, to breathe the same air as you, to be next to you. You were some immortal and deific creature whose limits were boundless—you could touch the heavens easily if you desired so, yet you stayed here patching up his clumsy cuts and scrapes. Why curse yourself to a life with mortals, a life with him?

You eventually found your way on to the couch as your continued effort to patch Jason’s grazes led you to the edge of his shoulder. Jason turned to look at you as you taped the gauze to his skin ever so gently. Methodical movements never looked so tender. Your eyes met his somewhere in the silence. Soft yellow and touches of blue accentuated your being, giving you the unmistakable divine veil akin to that of the rosy-fingered dawn. The sounds of the television and the occasional car skidding down the road blurred into nothing but the transfixed beating of his heart. Jason was worried that was all you could hear too. There wasn’t a need to say anything. The lingering touch of your skin on his told a holy phrase that always managed to be trapped in his lungs.

Both you and Jason sat in the semi-silence of the late night, not a single word gracing your lips. Jason leaned forward to place a kiss on your forehead, your eyes, and finally your lips. He wasn’t holy or heavenly by blood, nor did he have wings of ivory feathers, but this was a sacred ritual even mortals could learn.

**Author's Note:**

> this story and others can be found on my tumblr: batwngs
> 
> if there are any formatting errors please let me know! comments and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!


End file.
